


Overstimulation is Not Good For Your Heart

by AngelOfBooze



Series: Autistic!Simon Monroe [1]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Simon Monroe, Autistic!Simon Monroe, Gen, self harm in the form of banging ones head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:41:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfBooze/pseuds/AngelOfBooze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Kieren are on a train. Simon gets over stimulated and has a melt down. Sorry about the sucky summary,  I promise that I write better than this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overstimulation is Not Good For Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Well, okay. This is my first fanfic for In The Flesh and my first post here. Go easy on the newcomer please?  
> This fic is based on Mashedpotatoeturtle's headcanon of Simon Monroe having ASD. Here's a link to their meta http://mashedpotatoturtle.tumblr.com/post/87661205361/guys-i-think-simon-is-autistic (Warning for gifs in link) . Just a warning for self harm via banging ones head against the wall.

The perfume drifts off of the woman sitting adjacent to Simon, slicing into his head like a knife, filling his senses until it’s all he can think, see, hear. The sweat on the man sitting across from him glints in the sunlight filtering through the dirty window. He can see the individual hand prints on the window, smudged onto the glass. One is a small child’s’, contorted as if dragged along the glass. The sound of skin sliding against glass fills his mind... The wheels of the train squeal, the carriage rocks, jerking him back to himself. NO. Stop. Focus. It isn’t until he tries to tune back in and Kierens words are a faded buzz that Simon realizes he hasn’t been listening for how long now? What was it they were talking about? Art supplies? The Roarton fete? Simon can’t remember, he can’t remember how to listen. The subjects of conversation pool together in the back of his head, the words flit past his eyes, like snow they melt away when he grasps them. He can hear the shallow breath of an elderly woman; He can here the man at the end of the carriage, pecking away at his laptop. Is he composing an e-mail? A troll comment on a social media site? No… Yes?

All Simon can hear now is the new passengers shuffling onto the train, shuffling in their seat, shuffling their papers, shuffling their coats off in the heated carriage, shuffling their shoes against the ground. Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling…

Simon can feel the walls of the train carriage closing in around him, and pulling away at the same time. Everything’s too far and too close in one breath. He can feel his jumper. It’s lighter than usual. He doesn’t like this jumper, the material feels like death against his skin, pulling in some places and hanging loose in others. He can’t breathe, his chest is tight and constricted. _Deep breaths, Simon!_ He remembers as he sucks in one breath after the other. The air pools in his lungs then is blown back out again. In, out, in, out, in…

Simon can barely hear Kierens’ distorted voice anymore. He looks over. Kierens’ lips are moving, forming words that Simon can’t hear. He thinks of the silent films of the nineteen twenties. Flapper dresses swim before his eyes. Big band music starts to play on loop. The harder he strains his ears hear past his mind the quieter Kieren gets. He can hear the tapping of someone’s foot. Kierens’ eyebrows knit together in concern, his mouth turning down at the corners. Simon can see each individual hair, each and every pour in Kierens’ skin. “Yeah, yeah. ‘m fine.” The words bubble out of Simons’ throat, his lips slurring them and obscuring their meaning. No one in the carriage besides Kieren can see what’s going on in Simons’ head, even then Kieren can only see what Simon lets him. Simons’ hands reach up to cover his ears, his blunt fingernails digging into the short hair on his scalp. He tugs a little on the dark strands, grounding himself. His eyes are screwed shut, galaxies stretch out before him, fireworks of colour swirl in and out of the dark night stretching before him. The band continues to play. He can feel Kierens’ hand settle on his back. The light touch sets his nerves on fire. His body jerks away.

Kierens is saying something unintelligible to Simon. He can feel the weight of the others passengers stares, pulling him down. He can just make out the words ‘rabid’ and ‘nortriptyline’ spat in his direction through the milky fog that has enveloped his brain and his hands that are trying to block everything out... He can’t put together what they mean. He knows the words, he’s heard them before. He can’t remember where he’s heard them, he can’t remember what they mean he can’t he can’t he can’t. The humming noise won’t stop. The band has stopped playing. Now he can hear every breath in the carriage, he hears the rasp of paper being turned. He feels like ants are crawling beneath his skin. His jumper feels as if sandpaper is being rubbed up his arms, curling around his neck, strangling him.

His hands are pressing harder to his ears, trying to stop the noise, his fingers are scratching frantically at the skin behind his ears. He can feel a headache starting behind his eyes. He can see every speck of dirt on the floor, every scratch on the window, the sweat of the other passengers. His vision begins to blur. He’s not crying. He can’t. He physically can’t cry. He knows this. Why can’t he see? He can’t see what is making the humming noise.

He can’t see Kieren. What happened to Kieren? A word cuts through the haze. “Simon” Kieren is crouching over him. When did Simon get on the floor? He looks anywhere but Kieren. He is backed into a grimy corner of the carriage. Wedged between his seat and the door leading to the snaking body of train carriages, his back to the vibrating wall. “I’m fine.” Simon says to no one in particular, his voice a deep monotone, breaking on the last syllable. He can see the dust specks floating in front of Kierens face. He can’t see Kierens face. When did he open his eyes? Why won’t the train stop humming? Oh wait. It’s him.

He can’t focus on anything. “I’m fine” he mumbles again. The fog is drowning him, it’s in his lungs, his head is light and floating. _Crack-_ A sharp bolt of pain pierces through the back of his head. For a moment everything is clear. Kierens face, etched with worry. The other passengers stare at him with shocked expressions. “I’m fine” he says again ~crack~ More pain, more clarity. “I’mfine” His words mix together. _Crack-_ The world is in HD. The man with the computer has stopped typing. “I’mfine I’mfine” two more shards of pain as his head connects with the wall in rapid succession. He can feel Kieren trying to put something behind his- _thump_. A jacket collides with his head instead of the cool wall. He can’t, he needs, he just. He just. He just. He just. “I just. I just, I just I just…” He can feel his lips moving. His arms grope behind his head. Kieren pulls them down. “Simon focus” he can hear the words, where are they coming from? The headache has spread from behind his eyes, reaching taking a hold of his entire brain, wrapping greedily around his brain in a tight, constricting embrace.

Simon pulls his head up groggily. His neck feels as if it will snap beneath the weight of his skull. His mind feels empty. He sucks a deep breath in. The cool air fills his lungs. He can smell grass and stone and Concrete? Wait. Concrete? How? He doesn’t know where he is. He can vaguely remember being walked off the train by Kieren. Where is Kieren? His head snaps to attention. His nails scratch along the uneven ground, trying to find something to pull himself up with.

Why can’t he see? Black extends before him into a never ending abyss in front of him. Panic bubbles in his chest consuming hi- Oh. His eyes were shut. Simon blinks groggily into the sunlight, his head ache flaring up with vengeance, tendrils of pain spiral further into his head. The world is blurry, fuzzed slightly around the edges. Simon feels a cool breeze tugging at his hair, a warm breath on the bare skin of his arms. The sandpaper jumper is gone.

The source of the breathing looms over him, then Kierens’ face swims into view. His left hand hovering just over Simons shoulder. “You okay?” He asks, his face pulled into a frown. A concerned frown? A frown of anger? Simon can’t tell. Simon can feel himself shaking his head in response to Kierens’ question. “Home?” Simon can feel himself asking. He doesn’t feel fully in control of himself. His body feels like jelly, his brain is mush. Keirens’ knees crack as he stands up. He extends a hand to Simon. “Home” He agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> How did you like it? Please comment with your thoughts! Also, if I've gotten any information in this wrong, don't hesitate to inform me so I can change it as soon as possible!  
> I may have taken some artistic liberty and made it so that even if Simon is a PDS sufferer, he can still feel pain and discomfort but can't cry. Maybe his nerves are only just coming back online?


End file.
